


Sea Legs

by Diane_C



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander - All Media Types, Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor, pre-slash?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:31:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diane_C/pseuds/Diane_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Stephen have a little mishap on rough seas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sea Legs

**Author's Note:**

> After reading and re-reading Patrick O’Brian’s wonderful Aubrey/Maturin series, I felt at a loss and consoled myself by writing fic. Since coming up with good first lines is often tough for me, I decided to borrow quotes directly from the books to kick things off -- so the opening words in italics are O'Brian's. (No spoilers for the series.)

 

 

**Sea Legs**

  
  
_"Hold hard, Stephen," he cried, catching Stephen as he fell again, this time from a standing position. "Where are your sea legs?"_  
  
 _"It is not a question of sea legs at all," said Stephen._ "The ship is moving about in a very wild, unbridled manner, an Arabian gone mad. ...But I have her measure now and can ride her. Jack. I can stand."  
  
"Of course you can," laughed Jack, releasing him. "An old sailor like you. I daresay you love a good blow as well as the next fellow, eh?" He turned away to tuck his fiddle in its case, countering easily as the ship took a rough pitch. "She is spirited, ain't she? I say, Stephen!" He gripped Stephen's shoulders as the doctor stumbled into him.  
  
"A fine horseman I am," muttered Stephen as Jack guided him toward the stern locker. "And a fine sailor. But surely now, this ship is convulsing in a disgraceful, lunatic manner, is it not? Any man might find himself--"  
  
The cabin tipped, the deck became the wall for an instant before all was righted, and Stephen, his air expelled by the heavy body crushing him to the deck, looked up at the gleam of blue eyes and loosened gold hair above him. "--off balance," he finished, breathless. He shifted uneasily under his burden, and then went still. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, sixteen stone at least. Pray remove yourself, Jack, I suffer beneath your bulk."  
  
Jack pushed himself up a little, winced, fell, and Stephen's lungs were emptied a second time. "Pardon," grunted Jack. He went limp, panted twice, and made another unsuccessful attempt. "God damn me for a lubber, fall flat on my deck and-- Well look here, I tell you what it is, Stephen. It's my goddamn back."  
  
"Your back, is it."  
  
"Yes, my back, but give me just a minute and I'm--holy God! I'm your man."  
  
"Do not strain yourself, my dear," wheezed Stephen. "Your struggles are injurious to yourself and your physician. Be still now, will you? I shall examine."  
  
Stephen tugged the linen from Jack's breeches and slid a practiced hand to the small of his back. "I have never been pleased with this wound. The scar tissue does not diminish and now the muscles begin to seize. They seize now, I feel them, the traitors."  
  
Jack remained silent, but his damp forehead lowered to Stephen's shoulder.  
  
Dr Maturin spoke into his ear, naming musculature, identifying nerves and vertebrae, explaining the nature of the pain. "I tell you this by way of relieving anxiety, but alas, you do not attend," he concluded. "There, it eases and is done. Unclench your jaw like a good creature, now, and tell me if this spasm, this seizure, has happened before."  
  
A distinct pause, then Jack said, "Aye, but--"  
  
"Aye, aye, he says aye, but who is the last man under heaven to learn of it? His physician, forsooth. Sure, the physician is not to know until asphyxia is imminent beneath the patient's inert and sizable corpus. No! Do not shift yourself, I beg. Relax your shoulders and buttocks, please, you are doing yourself no favors."  
  
"Christ," muttered Jack. "My corpus is crushing you, but I may not move. And you ain't a feather bed you know, Stephen."  
  
"My dear, I grieve with you. A more ignoble position cannot be imagined." Stephen spat a lock of Jack's hair from his mouth. "The wanton pitch and roll of this barge is not to be trusted; however, I shall attempt to slide smoothly from beneath your person. Remain limp - limp I say! - and allow me to do the work. ...Jack, you murmur about the term 'barge,' and this indicates a lack of concentration on the matter at hand. Cease at once. Now, when the ship rolls forward--"  
  
"That's pitch."  
  
"Pitch. No, I am sure we pitch to the side."  
  
"That's roll."  
  
"Roll. No: I disagree."  
  
"Stephen, how many times--"  
  
"You waste time with pedantic chat. When the ship slopes to what is presently my _right_ and your _left_ , I shall make a serpentine glide from beneath you." He paused and stroked his palm along Jack's lower back. "Be at ease if you can. The pain will be brief."  
  
Jack sighed. "Do you ever wash your neckcloth?"  
  
"Hush, now. We roll, or pitch, and I make my move."  
  
"Oh Lord!" cried Jack.  
  
"Six...teen... stone. Sweet Patrick. Saints preserve us. I am free. I breathe, I aspirate. And my poor Jack groans."  
  
Stephen knelt, pulled the loose black ribbon from the few strands it still contained, and smoothed Jack's hair away from his pale, sweating face. "How do you do, my dear? Breathe. Will I dose you now? Once your tension is relieved, we shall quit the heaving deck and it's the cot for you. You will swing at your ease with a plank beneath your back."  
  
"A plank, Stephen? Surely not."  
  
"A plank."  
  
"No feather bed, then."  
  
"You shall have none."  
  
Jack smiled wearily and closed his eyes. "You are a hard man, doctor. ...Hey, _hard_ , d'you hear? Ain't I a rattle."  
  
"You are the wit of the world, my dear. Killick! Killick, there. The captain needs you while I prepare a draught."  
  
~end~  
  
(Opening quote is from _The Letter of Marque_ , page 64, Norton paperback version)

 


End file.
